Chapter 42
“What?” I breathe.
“We’re going to the Font?” Someone else steals the question from my lips.
“That’s… We can’t…” Lucan barely manages to say the words through his slack jaw.
“Aren’t only those who are gilded permitted access?” Saipha looks at both of us, even though she’s just as familiar with Vinguard’s laws as we are.
“That’s just to the springs before it. To the Font itself is usually restricted to just the vicar, high curates, and a few others the vicar handpicks.” Lucan squints his eyes, as if trying to see what the vicar is planning.
But I’ve never seen anything more clearly. I keep my voice down as I speak. “I suspect they’re trying to see if being in the presence of Etherlight causes anyone to transform. I’d bet their theory is that the Ethershade within them might reject the presence of Etherlight enough that it revolts.”
Of course, the Creed is wrong in all of it—I’m certain now. Dragons are creatures of Etherlight, not Ethershade. But, in that case, being in the presence of so much Etherlight would bring out the curse. They’ll get the results they want but for the wrong reasons.
The vicar descends the stairs, eyes grazing over us like honed blades. “This way.”
Supplicants and inquisitors fall into line, passing through the same door that we went through the last time we left the monastery and descended to the Undercrust. Previously, we kept to the bridges that skimmed the ceiling of the massive cave beneath Vinguard. This time, we descend farther.
The Undercrust is shaped like a cone. Its widest span is at the top—closest to the Upper City above. The cone is split into three broad levels.
The first and highest is the city portion—this level boasts multiple-story homes that, instead of being built from the ground up, are constructed from the top down in the massive stalactites that curtain the rocky top of the Undercrust. Almost like a mirror of the city above.
Bridges connect the spears of hanging rock.
Pathways loop around and through them, mostly shadowed.
The only light is from the streetlamps and the ambient, golden glow of the Font below.
Horowin and his brigade seem more at home here as we crisscross through the people of the Undercrust, who readily part for us.
Surprisingly, the latecomers seem wary to be back here. Their sunken eyes dart around, and they murmur to themselves, hands covering the bruises on their arms. I wonder if they’re remembering when they were caught…or maybe it had something to do with whatever replacement test the vicar gave them.
I shake my head and banish it from my thoughts. It won’t do for me to dwell on all the horrible things the vicar can come up with.
Those whose skin isn’t naturally a shade of brown are ghostly pale, much like Ulven. I doubt they’ve ever seen the sun. And they look at us with as much fascination as I imagine they’d look at the sky.
I can’t stop myself from wondering if somewhere among them are Yenni’s parents. I hope they were already told of their daughter’s demise and this isn’t how they find out. But everything involving the Tribunal seems so unnecessarily cruel, I doubt it. My hands ball into fists, and I set my jaw.
The cave begins to narrow in the middle section and brighten as it nears the Font, walls closing in and trapping the naturally warm, thick air that radiates with a golden glow from deep below. This is the farming section.
Terraces are cut into the walls, connected by fewer bridges throughout. Crops and livestock are fed and nurtured by Etherlight. The buildings here aren’t privately owned. They are under the control of the Creed.
Beneath the farms are springs that pool on similar stone terraces in place of crops. The water is piped up to the Undercrust and Upper City above. But the springs themselves are a holy place of meditation—of connection with life itself, raw and eternal, bubbling up from deep within the world.
Then we reach an iron gate at the lowest of the ledges that hold the springs.
It’s set into a fence that spans the edge of the terrace we’re on—a stone balcony that stretches over the abyss of the Font.
Etherlight swirls so thickly, it manifests as a mist that I note with fascination is not unlike the scourge.
This is the only place I’ve ever heard of Etherlight being potent enough that anyone can see it.
Its golden glow illuminates the entire Undercrust, although the source of the Font itself is still impossible to see.
An arched stairway carved from stone stretches away from the ledge and into the misty abyss.
I’m not the only supplicant that eyes the edge on the other side of the iron fence and the vast nothingness beyond. Even though we are deeper into the earth than I’ve ever imagined possible, it still keeps going. It’s as though we will touch the very heart of the world itself.
The vicar opens the gate before us, and I suck in a breath as he passes through. This is really happening. We’re going to head down to the point of the cone—the deepest part of the Undercrust: the Font itself.
Beyond the iron gate is another stairway that curves along the wall of the Undercrust. It’s carved right into the stone, just like the ones above. Except, unlike the ones above, it’s barely wide enough for one person at a time and has no railing. One slip would be our last.
I can almost hear every supplicant’s heart pounding—from proximity to the Font, and the peril of the sheer drop to our right.
The stone wall is warm underneath my palm as I brace myself against it.
Almost too warm. Tiny jolts pass through me, as if a lightning storm is happening in each of my joints.
I can’t imagine how bad it’d be if Mum hadn’t been able to give me a tincture.
Please be okay, my heart whispers at the thought of her.
As we plunge deeper into the swirling mist of Ether, it becomes impossible to see beyond the person in front of us. Saipha’s shoulders are nearly invisible, awash in the golden glow. Somehow, all this light isn’t blinding. Ahead, a shape comes into view—another landing.
It reminds me of the wide, flat cap of a mushroom. The haze makes it impossible to see if there’s any structure beneath supporting it or if it’s a horizontal shelf protruding from the wall.
As our feet meet the stone, we all let out a sigh of relief, grateful to be off the narrow stairway. It’s hard to tell how big the landing is, but it’s large enough that every supplicant and the inquisitors can stand upon it and there is still more beyond, obscured.
With the haze of Etherlight blocking the city above completely, it feels as though we’ve stepped into another world.
“Welcome to the precipice of the Font.” The vicar’s voice is muffled, weighted by the ambient Ether.
“Here is where, once you have successfully completed your Tribunal, you will receive your gilding. Just as the Mercy Knights guard Vinguard’s walls, I guard the soul of Vinguard.
The Creed is the manifestation of the guiding light of the Font in all of us.
” He lifts a hand and places it on his cheek underneath his shining, golden eye.
“It is from this power we come, and it is to this power we return. The gilding is a reminder of this—a reminder that we are all connected. Today, you will not receive your gilding, but you will meditate before the Font to seek Valor’s guidance within you.
You will spend time here, basking in the Ether, just as he did to empower himself before leaving to attack the Elder Dragon. ”
The mention of the Elder Dragon so soon after thinking of Mum reminds me of something else she said—something I’d all but forgotten in the fog of hunger and push of survival: the vicar is planning an offensive.
Did he bring me here to make sure I’ll be ready?
Mum mentioned a weapon, too, something big drawing on the Font.
I look around warily for anything that could be it, but of course there’s nothing.
Questions on questions compound, filling the empty space in my stomach to the point that I’m nauseous. What am I not seeing? I’m missing something important, something that I know, through all my terror, has to do with me.
“Please follow the inquisitors to the spring of cleansing,” he finishes.
We’re taken to the right. Another narrow bridge comes into view, also without railings, suspended over a glowing abyss. The bridge takes us from the platform we arrived on to another.
On this vast arc of stone protruding from the cave wall is a wide but shallow body of water. It’s impossible to tell exactly how large it is, as it extends into the haze that surrounds us. Stone benches line the closest edge.
“Strip down to your smallclothes,” the prelate commands.
“Excuse me?” Cindel blurts, utterly aghast.
“The Font demands you as you were when you came into the world. Be grateful we’re not demanding more.” At the prelate’s final word, the inquisitors step back to the outer edge of the ledge the spring is upon.
Supplicants regard each other warily, but Cindel is the first to move. She crosses to a bench and begins undoing the laces on her vest. Her expression is one of placid calm, despite her objection seconds ago. An ever-dutiful daughter of the Creed.
Others follow her lead.
I step off with Saipha and Lucan, moving with them instinctually.
We cluster around one bench, starting with our shoes, placing them underneath.
Then we remove our vests. Saipha has a moment of hesitation before she pulls her shirt over her head.
I follow suit, trying to look calmer than I feel as my knuckles graze over the leather-and-silk brassiere covering my breasts as I pull off my shirt.
I can’t stop my eyes from darting to Lucan as I untie my trousers.
My cheeks flush as his gaze briefly meets mine before he tugs his shirt up.
He doesn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable.
I mean, I wouldn’t if I were a guy with a body like his…
The fabric glides over his flat, muscular stomach, and the flush from my face flares through my entire body.
He turns and drops the shirt on the bench.
My heated skin goes ice-cold as I openly stare.
In my periphery, I see Saipha open her mouth to say something to me. Make fun of my gawking, likely. But then her eyes dart to Lucan and also stick.
His body is a constellation of scars. Long, deep gouges. Pale and thin slashes. Raised and gnarled. Some look fresh.
“Who did this to you?” I breathe.
Lucan freezes, but he doesn’t look at either of us. His eyes are downcast, shoulders rigid. “I am to say they are from the dragon attack I survived as a boy.”
Yet it’s everything he doesn’t say that has me balling my hands into fists so tight my nails dig crescents into my palms. Suddenly, the pain the vicar has caused me is trivial.
I can endure for my own sake. But when he hurts the people I care about?
The heat returns, but it’s completely different.
I suck in a slow, angry breath through my nose, trying to remain calm.
Lucan has removed his trousers and steps to my side.
His fingertips touch my white knuckles lightly.
“Don’t.” His eyes are full of pain, but there’s a faint smile curling the edges of his lips.
He moves away, wading into the waters of the pool alongside others.
The haze of Etherlight quickly consumes him, and he fades from sight.
“Bastard.” Saipha strips off her pants and follows Lucan. We both know she wasn’t referring to Lucan.
“Yeah,” I murmur, pulling off my own trousers to nothing but a small, silken pair of shorts. The Font warms the air temperature to a perfectly comfortable level, even just in my smallclothes.
“I’m surprised you’re here.” Cindel’s voice nearly startles me out of my skin. I didn’t even hear her approach.
“Where else would I be?” I only glance her way, keeping my attention on Lucan and Saipha. Mostly Lucan. All I can think of are the scars he’s worked so hard to hide.
“I would think the great Valor Reborn would be going to the Font itself. Not merely basking in its glow like the rest of us.” Cindel speaks loud enough that others glance our way.
“I would hate to think that you have an opportunity to strengthen your power and you wouldn’t take it. For the good of Vinguard.”
“Indeed.” The vicar’s voice slithers across the open space. An unwelcome third party to this conversation.
I freeze, head turning his way, bracing myself. Or, maybe, holding myself back from launching forward in anger. There the vicar stands, barely visible in the haze. His hands are folded at the small of his back. Here, his golden eye shines as bright as the sun.
“Come, Isola,” he commands.
An objection rises from my gut and burns my tongue as I remember vividly what happened the last time I was alone with him.
I press my lips into a line to prevent myself from saying all the things I want.
From cursing him for all he’s done, to demanding to know what he did to Lucan so I know exactly what I’m going to someday make him pay for.
“Oh, it looks like you will have a chance to make yourself stronger. How good for you and for us all.” Cindel’s words have soured. Like she can’t decide if she’s glad to be proved right or perpetually annoyed that I receive special treatment.
“It is good for me.” I try to stand taller as I stride past her to follow the vicar.
“You think you’re so strong, don’t you?” she mutters under her breath. “You’re nothing without him, Isola Thaz.”
I freeze for a heartbeat, nearly turning on her. I want so badly to put her in her place. To tell her that I drew Etherlight without a sigil. But I bite my tongue. She’s not worth it. And something about sharing that fact widely feels…dangerous.
“Isola, now.” The vicar snaps, and I follow. I don’t know what he intends, but instinct tells me it won’t be good.